


for years, and more

by kagako



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of Death, hand holding, i love hand holding im so stressed, idk what other tags but i am proud of this, laurent is tender and sweet, spoilers for the last book pretty much, they are so in love and tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9352793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagako/pseuds/kagako
Summary: His eyes wander up and down the length of Laurent’s body before they land on his hand—small compared to Damen’s own, palm facing upward almost invitingly.Damen isn’t sure what causes him to grasp Laurent’s hand, to slot their fingers together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello once again!
> 
> before summer palace came out, I was always so demanding of hand holding with these two and at first this was supposed to be a fluffy thing but then I never finished it, and then summer palace came out and then the rest pretty much wrote itself.
> 
> they are so in love and i hate my pathetic life
> 
> anyways, this is probably not gonna be what everyone is expecting but please enjoy nonetheless! Thank you! <3
> 
> yellow zinnias: daily remembrance, lasting affection

The light filtering through the drapery is what wakes Damen from his slumber. He’s disorientated only for a moment as he looks around the bedchambers, watching as small pecks of dust dance in the sunrise. There’s a silent moment as Damen listens to the soft breathing beside him before finally settling his gaze on the man lying next to him.

They lay side by side, nothing between them but messy sheets and a layer of sweat. Laurent looks something close to tranquil beside him—face calm, his shoulders relaxed and his skin seeming to glow in the soft light of the sun. Truly, Damen thinks, Laurent looks beautiful like this—bare for his eyes to see, lips slightly parted and twitching in the depths of sleep, his hair a silky mess as it’s splayed on the pillows.

His eyes wander up and down the length of Laurent’s body before they land on his hand—small compared to Damen’s own, palm facing upward almost invitingly.

Damen isn’t sure what causes him to grasp Laurent’s hand, to slot their fingers together.

The immediate reaction he gets is almost humorous—perhaps, aside for the calculating look in Laurent’s now wide eyes. Damen feels as though he were a kid, getting caught doing something he should have known better than to do. However, he swallows the feeling as he quirks an eyebrow at Laurent. He tries to keep his tone neutral as he says, “You were pretending to be asleep.”

“Yes,” Laurent says simply, quirking his own brow at their clasped hands. “I had not imagined… I would be greeted a good morning quite like this.”

“You were hoping for something else, Laurent?”

“Perhaps,” is all he says as he continues to look at their entwined fingers, eyes brimming with curiosity. He barely registers Damen’s hum in response as he experimentally squeezes the hand against his own. Laurent gives the other a glare when he hears the chuckle, but decides to show graciousness since the look on Damen’s face is full of the things that make Laurent’s chest burst with butterflies.

Laurent can’t stop the next words from slipping through his lips, his defenses and sharp tongue weak in the tenderness of the moment, in the warmth of their mingled heat. “Your hand is warm,” Laurent murmurs, silently cursing himself as heat radiates from his cheeks. He presses his lips together, muscles tensing in anticipation of Damen’s next words; and as the moment lingers on, Laurent wonders anxiously if Damen had heard him.

_He is so warm._

“Yours too,” Damen tells him softly, and the gentleness in his voice is enough to melt Laurent’s anxiety. He squeezes Laurent’s hand, brushes his thumb against the soft skin before simply saying, “Your hand is warm as well.”

Laurent gives a hum in response, and he means for it to be neutral and calculating, but as the corners of his lips turn upward in a content smile, Laurent knows he has lost. He lifts his gaze upward, furrowing his brows at the lazy curve of Damen’s lips. “How unsightly for a King,” Laurent observes, and he hopes the squeeze of his hand cancels out the harsh teasing of his words.

_It suits you._

It makes Damen laugh nonetheless, however, as he reciprocates the motion. Laurent finds sensitivity in the other’s eyes as their gazes lock, and he almost loses himself in the beauty of it, thinks to himself, _I want to kiss him_ —and he almost leans forward, almost brushes his lips against Damen’s, almost pulls his hands away to favor the heat of the other’s chest—he almost steals a kiss and a little more of Damen’s affections in their moment together in the rising sun; yet he holds himself at bay for a reason unknown even to himself, and for a moment, regret settles deep in Laurent’s chest.

_He almost died._

There’s a tenseness settling in the room as Damen looks at the other almost quizzically, as if somehow he and Laurent had switched positions. Laurent quirks an eyebrow in a silent question, and he curses himself as his body begins to tense once more under Damen’s gaze. With one last squeeze of his hand, Damen lets go, hauling himself from the warmth of the sheets and Laurent’s scent— _their_ scent.

“We should begin the day,” Damen says softly.

_You almost died._

Laurent hums as he watches Damen go, and he listens to the soft taps of Damen’s bare feet against the floor until he has to strain his ears for the sound. He stays mingled in the sheets, his surroundings gradually becoming colder without the other beside him, and it’s an observation that Laurent is only slightly bitter to realize. Laurent lolls his head to the side, wiggling his fingers—and he can’t help but think the empty spaces look incredibly lonely without Damen’s fingers there to slot between them.

_How frightening._

***

He doesn’t expect the tenseness to be present throughout the day—but it’s there, plain and simple in each of their interactions. Laurent brushes his shoulder against Damen’s—and it’s different from before, no Veretian clothing to muffle the touch. He dons a chiton as Damen does, exposed skin to exposed skin and Damen stiffens, his face betraying calculation before smoothing into something akin to a marble statue. Laurent leans in from behind as Damen is seated; Damen rolls his shoulders to feign a stiff neck, gracing Laurent with a struggled smile before turning his attention back to the documents in sprawled in front of him.

Laurent straightens, and if Damen can feel Laurent’s eyes on him, he betrays nothing. His eyes start at the dark curls on the back of Damen’s head— _my hand was cradled there, drying to your curls with blood—_ traveling downward to the thickness of his neck— _I felt your pulse stutter and your body convulse—_ to his hands, documents in one and a quill in the other— _your fingertips grazed my cheek like you knew it was good-bye._

The air thickens around him; his lungs struggle to expand.

He dreams about it, sometimes. Damen’s head in his lap, the shaky breathes and soft murmurs of _Laurent, Laurent_ and Damen had the nerve to question about his brother, the fool—but he knew. Laurent knew; after all, how could he forget? He remembers demanding Damen to be quiet—to save his breath like every dying person should but when has Damen ever truly listened?

Bells.

He remembers the bells—ringing in the air like some sort of sign: a sign for a reign of a new King, a sign for a miracle, for another chance. It gave him a burning hope that he never knew was nestled in his cold bones. It gave him enough fire to graze his thumbs along Damen’s skin all the while thinking, _you will live._ Laurent remembers Damen closing his eyes, a content smile tugging his lips upward as he hummed along with the ring of the bells; he remembers laughing, his shoulders shaking with it because of the absurdity of it all.

Hidden in the gardens is the bloodied chiton, buried in an old, tiny chest: a reminder.

_You will live, you will live,_ repeated in prayer.

_He lives, he lives,_ repeated in song.

Laurent takes a step forward, reaching out to Damen, who is very much alive and warm and beautiful. There’s a moment’s hesitation in which he remembers their moment in the sunrise—the same hesitation to kiss him, to touch him. Laurent shakes away the hesitation, grazing the exposed skin of Damen’s neck with his fingertips. He feels the drum of his pulse, the heat of his skin; Laurent has to suppress a shiver, he’s so pleased.

_Alive._

He turns on his heel, the echo of his sandals against the floor harsh to his ears.

***

Laurent wanders the halls, ignoring the glances of the servants and small murmurs of gossip from the guards—such a thing he was used to, even as a child. He slips outdoors, his head held high although he feels naked with his skin so exposed—and the light breeze that whispers against the hem of his chiton doesn’t help him in the slightest.

He travels further, the scent of flowers drawing him in. There is no destination in the threshold of his mind, yet his feet take him to where he hid the bloodied chiton. It laid buried, nestled snug beside vibrant yellow zinnias, just a few feet below the dirt.

_I remember._

With a tilt of his head, he kneels quietly, brushing his fingertips against the dirt. As if it were yesterday, the memory replays: he woke with Damen beside him as the moon hung high, mighty and bright. He had grimaced at the stiffness of dried blood—the lingering smell of blood and saltiness burned his noise and churned his stomach, but he refused to heave the acids of his stomach.

Quietly as though not to disturb Damen’s quiet breathing, Laurent had stripped of the ruined chiton; and he goes to throw it aside to later be burned, yet his grip is tight around the fabric, still warm to the touch from his skin.

From then to this moment in the garden, under the cooling breeze, Laurent doesn’t know what exactly possessed him to throw on another chiton—after all, the heat was too suffocating to sleep with layers so close to his skin. Yet, no; he had grabbed a small decorative chest, discarding the jewelry he never, if not rarely, wore onto the tabletop. Carefully, Laurent slipped from the bedchambers, being in such a rush he hadn’t slipped on sandals, shutting the bulky doors gently behind him.

Before the two men standing guard outside could begin speak, a harsh _“quiet”_ and _“keep guard on the King”_ leaves Laurent’s lips.

He had wandered the halls, passing few guards and fewer servants, and if they had opened their mouths to bid a hello or question an innocent, _Your Highness, what are you—?_ his hurried footsteps, the bloodied chiton in his fist and the chest under his arm, or perhaps the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw, silenced them all.

The fresh air was a welcome, as well as the scent of flowers, even the tickle in his nose as the mingled smells bombarded his senses.

Laurent ventured until the moon seemingly shifted, perhaps growing restless of shining down, watching him. There was no particular reason as to why he chose to bury the chiton in front of the yellow zinnias—perhaps, aside for how vibrant they shone in the moonlight, and Laurent thought for a moment, even brighter in the sunlight.

How could he forget a luminous yellow alongside a darkened, once just as vibrant, red? In the back of his mind, he thought such two colors would make a beautiful flower—perhaps a rose.

He dirtied his hands, digging beside roots and worms until the hole was deep enough. Carefully, he folded the brittle chiton to fit the space within the chest; just as carefully, he lowered it, returning the dug up dirt to the ground.

Laurent knew he should not linger there—guards saw him leave to the gardens and if he takes too long, they will grow weary and seek him out. He settled his hand there, against freshly disturbed earth, and whispered, _I will not forget, I will never forget._

Now, with the setting sun watching him, Laurent settles a hand against fitted dirt just as he once did before. He can hear the chimes from the palace and loud, mingled voices bringing news of dinner.

“I remember,” he says to the flowers—and they sway in the wind, as if in acceptance.

***

Laurent doesn’t attend dinner.

The taste of blood and something else he can’t quite describe is thick on his tongue; a tang of saltiness, harsher than from the sea, burns his nose. As his feet carry him away from the great dining hall and towards his— _their—_ bedchambers, Laurent finds that he still cannot place the feeling. He passes a handful of guards, and if they speak to him, he does not hear.

Laurent glances at the guards, standing at attention at either side of the royal chamber doors.

“Leave your post,” he says.

_He will come._

A furrow of a brow, and then: “Your Highness, King Da—“

“Need I say it once more?” His tone brings shivers as his glare causes an ice storm.

_I want him to come._

“No, Your Highness,” they say with a polite bow. Neither of them takes a glance back as they hurry down the hall.

Perhaps, sending away the guards was his way of calling out.

_I do not want him to come._

Laurent releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He lets the bulky doors shut with a harsh _thud_ behind him as he takes in the space: it’s filled with their possessions, a grand bed and several rugs settled about, basins filled with fresh water and oils. It’s cooler than it was before, with the setting sun taming the breeze. Wind filters through the archway that leads to the balcony, bringing with it scents of the sea and the garden. It is warm and inviting, filled with memories of mornings and nights and the in betweens with Damen.

_Yet, it feels empty._

He takes small steps to their bed, cold to the touch but the scent of Damen is still there. Laurent remembers, for a fleeting moment, that there had been a chance in which he’d never be able to inhale it again—and he thinks, for the second time, _how frightening._

Time is of no concern to him as he lies there, awake, his eyes watching as the sun fully sets and the moon comes to shine. The moon is about halfway rose when Laurent hears familiar footsteps—and it could be him imagining things, being desperate in this weak moment, but he knew. Damen’s footsteps had a particular measure to them, as well as his breath and his touch and his warmth—you could take away each of Laurent’s senses and there would be no possible way he wouldn’t _not_ know.

Laurent hears the doors open as much as he feels Damen’s presence spill into the room and wash over him. He hears the steady _tap, tap_ of Damen’s feet against the floor, feels the bed dip just slightly under his weight—and then nothing. He expected something, anything. Laurent steadies his breathing; his eyes are open just a sliver—enough to see the glow of the moon, to see small shadows dancing.

“Laurent,” comes Damen’s voice, whispered and deep.

He wants to ignore him—to feign sleep and hum in that dreamy, content way Damen always tells him about.

_(“I’ll call your name, just to say it, and you’ll hum,” Damen says, bewilderment in his eyes, amazement in his smile. “And I think you’re awake, but I peek at your face, and you’re still asleep, so I’ll call your name again, and…You’ll hum, and it’s…this gentle tone, almost like the beginnings of a lullaby.”)_

He wants to suppress the shiver that runs through him as Damen’s hand comes to rest on his bare shoulder—wants to close his eyes and sigh mystically, in his feigned slumber.

_(“I’ll touch you—don’t look at me like that—on your shoulder, run my fingers through your hair, the bridge of your nose, and you’ll sigh, and you…you’ll smile like you’re having the grandest dream and I’m interrupting it.”)_

Instead, he doesn’t hum, nor does he shiver.

Laurent follows the pull of Damen’s hand—would follow to the end of the world, if he asked—and opens his eyes. He’s greeted by the same face: dark and beautiful with creases of worry upon the brow; chocolate eyes, rich and seemingly endless, similar to the finest chocolates Auguste used to bring him. Laurent feels Damen’s warmth seep into him: comforting and _real_ and for a moment he doesn’t believe that he almost lost it.

“Laurent,” Damen says again, more breathless than he’d like to be.

“Damen.”

“You didn’t attend dinner.”

He wants to say, _you didn’t come to me fast enough._ Instead, he gives a shrug. “I was not hungry.”

“You sent away the guards.”

“I wanted to be alone.”

Damen considers this, nodding. Hesitantly, almost as if Laurent would strike and spill his venom, he grazes his fingertips along the other’s arm. “And now?”

Laurent bites the insides of his cheeks, shifting uncomfortably. This was new to him—intimacy, voicing his wants and tender thoughts, the things that upset him and weigh on him until he feels sick and weary with stress. “I wanted you to come,” he admits, softly, barely above a whisper. Laurent hopes the words would disappear with the wind, but as of recent, he has never been so lucky.

However, Damen smiles. “You could have called for me.”

Laurent remembers Damen shying away from him—the calculated expression, the struggled smile. It’s then he finally says, “You almost died.” He watches Damen’s eyes widen, feels his touch stutter and his breathing hitch. It pains Laurent to say it aloud, to remember—cloudy eyes and cold hands, shaky breaths and shivering limbs.

“Yes.”

“You almost died,” Laurent says again, voice wavering. He struggles to sit up, the rush of emotions dizzying him and leaving him disoriented.

“Yes,” Damen simply repeats. He understands.

Laurent inhales shakily, willing his fingers steady as he cups Damen’s face. “I do not want that to happen a second time.”

Damen opens his mouth—perhaps to jest that surely, after everything they went through, it would be quite more than a _second time_ , but Laurent leans forward and covers Damen’s mouth with his own. Laurent is desperate, painfully so, digging his nails into the skin of Damen’s shoulder to leave proof that this moment, as well as themselves, is real. He sighs into Damen, melts into his chest and scrambles for air when he sees constellations beneath his eyelids.

“Laurent,” Damen whispers against his neck, and Laurent flushes at the affection he feels, nestled beneath the murmur. He does not need to say more for Laurent to understand—he feels it in the breath against his skin, in the fingertips that play with the fabric of his chiton.

_We will rule for years, and more._

Laurent sighs, pulls back and cups Damen’s face in his hands once more. Closely, he studies: the unruly hair, the arch of Damen’s brows and the glint that holds so much in his eyes. He feels utterly tender in this moment, Damen’s face in his hands and their legs tangled with sheets that smell like them. Laurent can feel his heartbeat—faster than it had been ten minutes before, and the knowledge that Damen’s is surely just as rhythmic causes him to surrender to a smile.

He can sense the curiosity from Damen, but before the King can speak, Laurent leans forward again. Laurent kisses Damen, pliant and leisurely; they move together as one, just as the wind and the sea.

Damen pulls back first, but it is Laurent who speaks:

“You are my own.”

Caught off guard, Damen raises a brow. “I am your own?”

“Yes,” Laurent says, and even to his own ears, it’s embarrassing. “My own,” he repeats, carefully, as if not to say it wrong.

“You’re courting me,” Damen tells him, and his eyes are soft, his smile holds no humor.

Laurent falters. “I have never courted anyone before. I don’t know how, therefore, I am not.”

“No,” Damen insists, laughing giddily. His hands are quick to pull back a retreating Laurent, to pin him to the bed and straddle him. They are pressed flush together as Damen leans forward: groin to groin, chest to chest, and if he cranes his neck just a little more—their lips would touch. Laurent is beautiful: golden hair splayed on the pillows, a flush coloring high on his cheeks, his blue eyes endless in the glow of the moon. “You are definitely courting me. I am your first.”

“Lies—“

“You have caught my eye with your impressive sway,” Damen says playfully, eliciting a snort from beneath him. He rolls his hips, enjoying the hitch of Laurent’s breath. “Do make me your own, Laurent.”

“Damianos,” Laurent breathes his name like a sigh, like a breath of fresh air. His hands settle against his cheeks, and his thumbs graze the heat of Damen’s face. He feels boyish in this moment, with heat engulfing them and tenderness heightening the beats of their hearts. “You already are, Damianos.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
